


Beneath the Surface

by Badwolf36



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Guidance Counselors, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, Nemeton, Panic Attacks, Post-Nemeton, Realization, Season/Series 03, Snark, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, The Alpha Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23676097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badwolf36/pseuds/Badwolf36
Summary: He tossed the wadded-up yellow slip of paper on her desk as he slipped his backpack off. He moved the chair to the side of her desk, the better to keep an eye on her, the door and the windows. He flinched when he realized what he’d done, but he sat down anyways, trying to make it seem like a deliberate move.“Where should we start?” he said after she just continued to look at him.“Where would you like to?”“Aren’t you supposed to be the helpful one?” he retorted. “Full of good advice and wisdom and everything?”
Relationships: Marin Morrell & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Beneath the Surface

Stiles knew he was getting better about hearing the meaning beneath what people were saying. After all, he’d lied to his dad for two years. He knew a thing or two about subterfuge and double-speak and all sorts of psychology mumbo-jumbo.

But sometimes, he just wished he could have a normal conversation.

Why he thought he could have that with Marin Morrell of all people, especially after what went down with the Alphas, is beyond him. But he still found himself leaning against the doorframe of her office, rapping his knuckles on the open door.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming, Mr. Stilinski.” _Sacrifice_ is what she really meant.

“Considering the people I hang out with, I’m getting a taste for dramatic entrances, Miss Morrell,” he responded. _Emissary_ is what he’s really saying. And beneath that, _Traitor._

She studied him for a moment, and he took his time to do the same to her. Beneath the tan skirt suit and the deep purple blouse, she was shifting a bit uncomfortably, especially around her arm. He supposed getting hit with a spiked cane would do that. It took him a moment to realize that he was evaluating her weaknesses, like she was a threat, before he shook himself hard.

She was still looking at him though, and he wondered what she must see. In the mirror, which he’d taken to avoiding in the morning, he saw a 17-year-old boy with hollow eyes and darkening under-eye circles; a gaunt, pale-looking guy wrapped in red plaid, a snarky T-shirt, denim and weakened defenses.

“Dramatic entrances aside, that hall pass you’re clutching is only good for this period. I suggest we get to it.”

He tossed the wadded-up yellow slip of paper on her desk as he slipped his backpack off. He moved the chair to the side of her desk, the better to keep an eye on her, the door and the windows. He flinched when he realized what he’d done, but he sat down anyways, trying to make it seem like a deliberate move.

“Where should we start?” he said after she just continued to look at him.

“Where would you like to?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the helpful one?” he retorted. “Full of good advice and wisdom and everything?”

“My brother told me what you, Scott McCall, and Allison Argent did. About the sacrifice you made to the Nemeton.” It’s an explanation, an accusation and, the barest sliver of sympathy all rolled into one.

Stiles snagged the door with his foot and swung it shut.

He took a breath only when the latch clicked.

“Your brother presented an option that we took,” he said, trying to come off confident and knowing he was failing. “He didn’t know or suspect the depth of the consequences.”

Morrell leaned forward, bland expression almost completely cloaking her interest.

“Would it have changed your decision? If he had known, had told you?”

Stiles thought back to how his dad had whined that morning that he was a grown man as Stiles had plucked the Lucky Charms box out of his hands and replaced it with the Multi-Grain Cheerios. He’d laughed and cuffed Stiles on the back of the head as he walked out the door to head to his shift, shouting back to Stiles that he better not be late to school because he was not arresting his own son for truancy.

He also thought back to the silent Erica that had been hanging by her wrists in the corner of his classroom minutes before he got up to leave for this appointment, her eyes vaguely accusing as she stared at him while her body twitched with electricity, just as it had in the Argents’ basement. He’d never gotten the chance to apologize to her for not being stronger and getting her and Boyd out of there, just like he’d never gotten the chance to apologize to Heather for not being faster and getting back to her before she was taken.

That was his entire life, he realized suddenly. Always just a little too late, a little too weak.

_“All you really do is find the bodies,”_ Cora had said. But he hadn’t found his father’s body, or Mrs. McCall’s, or Mr. Argent’s. They’d been alive because he, Scott, and Allison had _died_.

And oh God, how had he not taken the time to deal with the fact that they’d, that he’d been _dead_ for 16 hours? How did he just forget that?

Vision going blurry, he gripped at the armrests of the chair he was sitting in, tried to remember how to hold his breath when there was no one to shock him with a kiss into doing it.

“What are you seeing right now?” Morrell asked, and she sounded curious, like she genuinely wanted to know, to help.

But he wasn’t seeing anything now because his eyes were shut tight. It blocked out the growing pile of bodies in the corner. He dug the nails of his right hand into his left wrist, trying to use the pain to snap himself out of the growing panic. But it’s the wrong thing to do because all he could think about was Peter offering him the bite, Peter telling him that he was lying, Peter being _right_ , even as he was so very _wrong._

“One of the first times we talked, after everything that went down at the police station, I told you how panic attacks were like drowning,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You did,” Morrell said. “As I recall, I gave you some advice that Winston Churchill gave to the world.”

“Then what I’m seeing,” Stiles said, fighting to get the words out, “is that we were both right.”

“How so?” He wanted to scream at her because she sounded so calm, but at the same time, that calm voice was helping to tether him to the here and now.

“It was hell then. This is the agony of later. And those few more seconds of breathing, that reflex to not let the water in? I…I wanted to survive. Laying there under all that icy water just waiting to die in Deaton’s office, I wanted to survive. But I knew dying was more important. For my dad. For Mrs. McCall and Allison’s dad. I knew that.”

“That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

“No,” he said, and it felt like the word was ripped from his throat. He wondered briefly how this woman, this druid, emissary, school counselor, whatever, had managed to break down all his walls so quickly. It felt unnatural. Maybe she had wolfsbane incense in her desk drawer.

“Stiles, you can breathe here. No one is going to get hurt if you take a breath right now.”

He sucked in some air that tasted far too stale, then had to cough hard as something in his chest twisted.

“What did you do to me?” he gasped, curling over himself and digging his fingernails into his temples.

Morrell actually started at that, hard enough that Stiles saw it out of the corner of his eyes.

“Mr. Stilinski, I haven’t done anything to you.”

“You helped the Alphas,” he accused. “And they murdered us!”

He’s not really seeing the speckled, heavy-duty tile under his feet anymore. Instead, his sneakers are surrounded by a pool of blood and water and mistletoe.

“Wake up,” he muttered. “Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

“You’re not asleep, Stiles.”

He laughed, a harsh, jarring noise that stole his air.

There’s blood up to his knees, soaking his shoes and socks and jeans.

“Breathe, Stiles.”

Had he said that? Or Morrell? He wasn’t sure.

He felt like he was trying to draw in air through a drinking straw, but he sucked in one short breath, and then another. His heart hammered away at his ribcage, feeling stuttery and shaky in the way it only does when he’s been off his Adderall for a while.

“Can’t,” he gasped out.

“Yes, you can,” someone said, and he’s positive it’s Morrell this time. He tried to follow her instructions as she told him to take a deep breath. He slid out of the chair to the floor, and the blood is up to his chin then, but he took a breath and held it, not wanting to let the copper in. He had tasted blood when he died, thick and hot and copper-rich on his tongue before the water had washed it away. He wondered what would happen if he let the blood in, what drowning in it will be like.

Because he was going to drown. Right here on the guidance counselor’s floor, he was going to suck in a breath that would take every last bit of Stiles and suffocate it in darkness.

“Take control. Don’t run away.”

How could he run away? He’s suffocating in a pool of blood, a pool filled by the crimson lives of all the people he had failed to save.

“You’re in Beacon Hills High School. You’re a student. You’re a lacrosse player. Your best friend is a werewolf and you have helped save his life and the lives of countless others. So. Take. Control.”

He breathed in, expecting to suck in hot, rich blood, but only slightly stale air flowed down his throat. He took another breath, and the process repeated: air, no blood. He had to gasp, stunned to find that his sight wasn’t matching with the rest of his senses.

“You would have died already, a long time ago, if you weren’t who you are.”

“And who’s…who’s that?” he whispered, trying to breathe normally and failing, but succeeding a bit more each time he tries.

“A survivor.” Stiles blinked, and Morrell came into focus, kneeling at his side from where he’d sprawled across the floor.

“Oh,” Stiles breathed, and the word felt heavy as it tripped off his tongue, landing in the pool of blood that dissipated the more the word made it ripple. “Yes. I’m…yes.”

“Are you with me?”

“I’ll never be with you,” Stiles said, and he sounded remarkably calm to his own ears. “Not after what you did.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Stiles turned to her, eyes only seeing her and her office now. He sucked in a few more shaky breaths, then let them out almost smoothly. He’d never calmed down this quickly after a panic attack before. He wondered what it was that was sending coolness through his veins like a saline IV drip.

“But it’s the answer to the question you _won’t_ ask,” he said. “Scott may forgive you, your brother might, but me? No. You went after my family. If you ever try anything like that again…”

He let the threat sit idle, wasn’t even sure he could come up with anything, but from the way Morrell nodded, she took it seriously.

“I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Yeah, I guess we will.” Stiles curled both of his hands into fists, letting the nails drive into his palms a little to ground himself firmly in the moment. He narrowly avoided jerking them in too deep when the bell rang. He glanced up at the wall clock, surprised to find that the period had indeed ended.

_Must have been panicking for a while_.

“It would appear our time is over for today.” Morrell stood up, brushing non-existent dirt off her thighs.

“Uh, yeah.” The calm is still there, but it’s starting to fracture a little as the clamor of _normal_ high school students fills the hall outside Morrell’s office. “Right.”

He had to turn around and use his chair to get himself upright, but he managed without asking for help.

Morrell scribbled something on a pad on her desk, then ripped it off and held the yellow slip out to him.

“For your next session.”

Stiles shouldered his backpack, gaze never leaving Morrell even as he let his focus drift to the paper.

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“Do I think you’re still a kid who stumbled into a world that you’ve only scratched the surface of, who has also already been severely traumatized by that world? Take the slip, Stiles.”

Stiles snatched the slip out of her grip, backing toward the door as quickly as lacrosse drills and regular running for his life could take him.

“Until next time, Miss Morrell.” _Ally? Enemy? Counselor?_

“Until next time, Mr. Stilinski.” _Survivor._

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are very much loved. Thanks!


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